


agape

by loyaulte_me_lie



Series: there are no bargains [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barricade Day, Barricade Day 2018, Enjolras ends up adopting a load of people by kind of accident, Gen, Investigative Journalist Enjolras, Les Amis shenanigans, Minor Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Modern AU, New York City, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Scenes from a life, Vignettes, Well coffee shops & shelters & activism stuff, nearly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 02:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14864649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaulte_me_lie/pseuds/loyaulte_me_lie
Summary: Enjolras builds a home with the help of his friends. No-one is remotely surprised it has turned out to be like this.





	agape

**Author's Note:**

> Another offering for Barricade Day because apparently I am being super prolific this year. Same 'verse as philtatos, will probably be an entire series of them when I get my head out my butt and plan stuff instead of spontaneously writing to avoid doing actual work. Been super sunny down my corner of England recently, hope the weather is lovely with all of you guys!

**agape**

_“Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining.”_

_~Anne Lamott_

* * *

 

The door leans at a drunken angle in its frame, and there is dust piled up in the corners of the front room as though someone has swept it there and promptly forgotten about it. The agent and Combeferre disappear into the back, talking about prices and furniture stores and overheads, but Enjolras lingers, reaches out a hand to touch the water-stained wall. The rush of the cars over the bridge has dulled, and the light sticks in the dirty windows. He closes his eyes for a second, piecing this place together in his head.

“So, there are some serious problems with it,” Combeferre says, “but…”

“We’re having it.”

“Okay? Are you sure?”

Enjolras just smiles and reaches out to clasp Combeferre’s shoulder. It’s all that really needs to be said.

*

“There is no way I am letting you finish that.” Bahorel’s voice breaks his reverie. “You can’t paint for shit, why are you even trying?”

“It needs to be done today,” Enjolras says, reaching up to wipe his face. The paintbrush in his hand slides across his forehead, paint smearing his skin, and Bahorel snorts.

“You’re a hazard to the living and the dead. Get down from there. Feuilly is coming over in a second, she’ll do it.”

“Speak of the devil.” Enjolras catches sight of sturdy jeans and unruly ginger hair shoved under a hat. As she draws closer, books crushed to her chest and backpack clinging to her shoulders like a small, persistent child, he calls, “Did you finish it?”

“No no no no no,” Bahorel catches Enjolras’ arm. “Paint first, politics later. Feuilly, can you please rescue the travesty up there? He’ll pay you.”

Feuilly glances up at the dripping red paint and rolls her eyes. “This is why we leave the art to Jehan and me,” she says, handing her stack of books to Bahorel and shoving up her sleeves. “Give it here. What do you want?”

Enjolras hands over the paintbrush, and steps aside; Feuilly grasps the wooden stepladder borrowed from Enjolras’ current landlord and pulls herself up until she’s level with the top of the shop-front.

“It’s supposed to be the ABC Café.”

“Dude, really? Did Courfeyrac and Joly put you up to that?”

“What do you think? If it was left to Enjolras it would either be The Thing or the Rousseau Centre for Upraising the Helpless, neither of which particularly _work._ ”

“It’s a bit obvious.” Feuilly worries her lip between her front teeth. “Well, it’s supposed to be a nesting place, of sorts, isn’t it – for those who need help? But that’s a bit clunky so…”

“A rookery?” A voice pipes up from the background car noises.

“Hey Jehan,” Feuilly waves. Jehan comes to a stop, pulling their woollen dress down around their knees. “I like a Rookery, what do you think Enjolras?”

“Flight,” is all Enjolras says, accepting the side-hug from Jehan.

“I’m taking that as an agreement,” Feuilly turns back to the shop-front.

“So much for democracy,” Bahorel laughs. “Make it the Brooklyn Rookery, then people will know where it is.”

“Cool beans. You guys might want to go inside, I’ll be out here a while.”

“I’ll keep you company,” Enjolras tells her, and Jehan pulls out their phone, snaps a photo. Feuilly pulls a face and continues painting over Enjolras’ wonky attempt at lettering.

“I’m going to sort out your social media presence because god knows you won’t,” they say cheerfully. “Bahorel, dear, are you going to come inside or were you heading off?”

“Off. I’ll see you all later?”

“Uh-huh,” Feuilly says, and after a moment, Bahorel sticks his hands in his pockets and wanders off down the street, whistling. Jehan disappears inside, and Enjolras sits down on the bottom step of the ladder, picking up one of Feuilly’s books and leafing through it. A polluted breeze riffles through the leaves on the street, ruffling curious fingers through his hair. Feuilly is humming to herself. The brush rasps against the woodwork.

*

The Brooklyn Rookery opens without fanfare on a cold November Thursday. The rainclouds are lowering over the city, dank and heavy, and Enjolras ties up his hair, ties on the black apron over a jumper stolen from Combeferre years ago. He looks across the counter at the squishy thrift-store sofas, the piles of blankets leaning precariously in their baskets, the bookshelves laden down with the smell of second-hand books. Courfeyrac has already drawn on the chalkboard wall around the window, his message decorated with sketchy hearts and a half-hearted attempt at a skull. The coffee machine is warm and humming, the cakes are in the fridge with their hand-drawn signs standing to attention next to each one. He’s never put much thought into the way things look before, but between his more artistic friends and his inheritance, he can’t quite imagine any way this could get better.

“SMILE!” Jehan pops out from the kitchen, their hair swept into a flower crown and their clothes dusted liberally with flour. Caught by surprise, Enjolras does, and Jehan looks down at their phone, nodding happily.

“You actually look like a friendly human being in this one, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says. Courfeyrac appears a second later, a new love-bite on his neck and pulling at his university sweater.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Not even a little bit excited? Ah, there it is, I can see you trying to hide that smile.”

“It will be good to have somewhere for people to come,” Enjolras says firmly, and Courfeyrac hops up onto the counter to give him a hug.

“Yes, it will. I’ll be visibly excited for you if you can’t…oh my god, a customer! Two customers!”

Jehan takes a photo of Enjolras pushing Courfeyrac off the counter. The pair of girls in the doorway start laughing, and Courfeyrac picks himself up off the floor, pulling a sad-face at Enjolras. This, Enjolras thinks, turning to ask the girls what they want to drink, is the best way it could have started.

*

It settles into a routine, as all things are bound to do. He moves his things into the attic apartment of the building, spending late evenings up there with Combeferre and cups of tea and the stars glowing through the half-open windows. The Rookery has taken up so much of his time lately – sourcing furniture and refurbishing and reining in Courfeyrac’s more…interesting…baking experiments - that he’s been neglecting his writing, letting contacts fall by the wayside. One evening, Combeferre looks up from his book and says,

“You’re starting again, aren’t you?”

Enjolras makes a non-committal noise, continues scrolling through the forum.

“You know you’re going to need some more help with the Rookery if you do. You won’t just be able to leave it and go gallivanting off into the back of beyond.”

“It’s not a child,” Enjolras says.

“Yes, it is. A business is very much a child,” Combeferre says. “And you know most of us have our own things. Courfeyrac and Jehan pretty much live here, but Joly and I are still studying, all of the others work.”

“It’s a social enterprise, not a business,” Enjolras corrects. “And I’m thinking of turning the first floor into a homeless shelter.”

It’s a credit to the long years of their friendship that all Combeferre does is blink and take another sip of tea. “Well, I knew you were going to go beyond free food for them one day,” he says. “You are definitely going to need more help, then. I’ll put some feelers out for you.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says, turning back to his computer. “I will too, then.”

*

“This is Éponine,” Enjolras says, shouldering the front door open. The bell tinkles and Combeferre looks up from his book, raising an eyebrow. There’s writing curling up his arm, and a distracted – I-am-in-the-middle-of-something-very-interesting – expression lining the skin of his face.

“Hello, Éponine,” he says politely, to the girl currently lurking behind Enjolras, her skinny arms wrapped around her waist.

“She’s my new assistant. There’s a spare room going in the flat too, the one at the end? Thought she could live there if she wanted to.”

“ _She_ is still here, and _she_ already said that she doesn’t want charity.” Éponine’s voice is sandpaper, rasping and sore and painful. She coughs, revealing slightly brown-stained teeth.

“It’s not charity, it’s a job with lodging. Keep up,” Enjolras says, in a tone heavy with repetition.

 “This is not exactly what I meant, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, long-suffering, creasing the corner of his book.

“Yes, I know, but if Éponine agrees, it could be a mutually beneficial arrangement that works well. I’d prefer to give employment to someone who can’t get it anywhere else than to a college kid with a fixed address and resume.”

Éponine has slunk out from behind him, started to explore the front room, eyes raking over everything as though she could strip everything down to its skeleton and inspect it for lies. She trails a hand along the back of one of the sofas.

“How old even is she?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras shrugs.

“Seventeen,” Éponine says.

“I’m trusting you not to tell your parents about this place,” Enjolras says to her. “That’s the only condition. We’re trying to do some good here, and it would be an inconvenience if we got robbed.”

“An _inconvenience,_ ” she says, mocking. “Oh you poor little rich boy.”

Enjolras just folds his arms, watches her meander. The floorboards squeak a little. She stops in front of the book-case, reading the sign Jehan had put there _._ He sees her lips move – _why stay in this world when you could go anywhere_ – and then she’s quiet. Her fingers are clawing into her ribcage through her fleece. Combeferre has gone back to his book.

“Okay,” she says, after a moment, turning to face them. “I’ll do it.”

*

“Well, I don’t think it would kill anyone…” Bossuet says after she’s finished spluttering. Éponine practically shines, and Enjolras wonders how little praise she’s received that she sees this as a compliment. “But maybe it’s just my bad luck.”

*

The first person Éponine brings to the shelter when Enjolras has got it ship-shape is a boy, but you can barely see the boy for the dirt.

“Nice place here, ‘Ponine,” he says, with all the seriousness of a professor. “You landed a good one.”

Enjolras appears in the cubicle doorway, attracted by the voices. “Hello, Éponine. Who’s this?”

“My idiot brother.” Éponine has a hand on his shoulder, her face is drawn in lines of fondness and exasperation. “I’d prefer him to be _off_ the streets.”

“He’s a right bougie, ain’t he?”

“Gavroche! Mind your _manners._ ”

“Since when have you ever cared?”

“Since I’ve started making friends who have _lives._ Shut up.”

“You’re very welcome here, Gavroche,” Enjolras says. “You can stay with your sister in her room or have one of the cubicles if you want.”

“I don’t have to go to school, do I?” Gavroche asks, folding his arms. The curl of his lip is sulky.

“Oh yes you do,” Éponine says. “Where’s the nearest one, Enjolras?”

“Ask Combeferre when he gets home. I need to head back downstairs. Éponine, can you get your brother settled?”

“If he’ll stop being such a little shit about school then yes,” Éponine says. “ _Ow,_ Gav, stop _kicking me_!”

“If you stop kicking your sister and have a shower, you can help Jehan with the cakes when they get here,” Enjolras offers over his shoulder. Predictably, Gavroche brightens at the mention of cake.

“Do I get to eat them?”

“Depends how polite you are to Jehan.”

“Got yourself a deal, bougie,” Gavroche says, and Enjolras gives him a small smile before disappearing. They hear his footsteps on the rickety stairs, and Gavroche turns to his sister and pulls a face, “He’s _weird._ Why’s he doing something like this?”

“Yeah, I know he’s weird, they all are. You get used to it, after a while.” Éponine fidgets a little. “Wish I could get Zelma here too, but she’s too gone on ‘Parnasse to even think about escaping it all.”

“Zelma’s not a bird like you an’ me,” Gavroche says, suddenly, leaning his head against Éponine’s ribcage. Her arms hover for a second before she puts them gently around his skinny shoulders, as though she could crush him with her new softness. Sometimes, she looks at herself in the mirror and wonders when her angles disappeared. Somehow, she's suddenly turned into Éponine the barista who reads books and larks around with her roommates and listens quietly to intense political discussions, inhaling faces and movements and words until she’s giddy on them, instead of Éponine the homeless rat, who scurried and hid under bridges and never fought back. She thinks she likes the person she’s becoming, the butterfly squirming inside her flaking chrysalis, and it’s all she wants for Gavroche, as well. 

“Come on smelly, let’s get you into the shower,” she says. He pinches her, and she smacks his head. Even though everything’s different, somehow it feels like nothing has changed.

*

There’s a hand-drawn sign on the door that says, “Help Is at Hand,” and that is why Musichetta pushes it open, stepping into a gust of warmth and vanilla and soft yellow light. Her hand is tight around her rape alarm, and the hair on the back of her neck is prickling. The girl at the counter looks up. Her jumper is worn in places, her hair is stuck on top of her head, and her smile looks as though she’s been practising it in a mirror.

“Here for the night?” she asks.

“The night?” Musichetta frowns.

“Shelter, upstairs. Think we’ve got a couple of beds free this evening, head on up to Joly if you wanna stay.”

“Oh, I’m not homeless. I just think someone was following me, and…yeah.” Musichetta spreads her hands like _what can you do,_ and the girl grimaces.

“That sucks, sorry. I can make you a tea, if you like?”

“Would be lovely, thanks.”

The girl gets up and finds a mug from the mismatched pile on top of the machine, digging a tea bag out from one of the jars and flinging it in. Musichetta adjusts her head-wrap self-consciously, and the girl puts the tea down on the counter. It sloshes a little, dribbling down the sides.

“How much?”

A pause. “On the house.”

“Really?”

“That’s what Enjolras always says if there’s someone in need. Fuck knows he’s got enough money to give away a free tea.”

“Enjolras?”

“Mastermind behind this place,” the girl waves an arm expansively. “Some call him a genius, I call him a bit of an idiot, but his heart’s in the right place.”

“I’ll tell Enjolras you said that,” a new voice says, and Musichetta looks over to the woman who’s just appeared in the stairs, leaning against the door-frame. Her smile is like sunshine. “Do you have the bucket?”

“Someone been sick?”

“You know it. Hi, new person! Bet Éponine here didn’t introduce herself…”

“…I’m wearing a name tag, sod off.”

“I’m Saskia Joly, what’s your name?”

“Musichetta,” Musichetta says, after a beat. People here are really fucking friendly, she thinks to herself. Perhaps they’re all high? But then there’s no smell of weed whatsoever, just coffee and chocolate and vanilla, lingering like old friends. Saskia Joly smiles even wider, and Musichetta feels a slight tingle in her stomach. Éponine shoves a bucket over the counter.

“Have fun dealing with pukey people and stop acting so twitter-pated,” she says, and Saskia Joly picks up the bucket, swinging it towards Éponine’s face.

“Hush, you. Hope to see you around here again, Musichetta.” Another smile, and then she disappears up the stairs, mousy braid swinging behind her.

“You’re staring,” Éponine says, and Musichetta looks back down into her tea, thanking God her skin is too dark to show the heat flooding to her cheeks.

“You’re awfully blunt to people you’ve only just met,” she responds. Éponine shrugs a shoulder, as if to say _and that’s a bad thing, why?_ Saves a lot of communication difficulties, Musichetta supposes, taking a gulp of tea that turns out to be a little too hot. It scalds the roof of her mouth. She chokes a little, but Éponine ignores her, clanking a pot.

“So this is a bit of a social enterprise, huh?” she asks, after a moment of silence.

“Enjolras’ pet project. Parents died, left him a shit-tonne of money, he decides to carry on his life mission of pissing them off even though they’re not around to pull faces and make snide comments anymore, so sets this place up. Think he needs something to work on when he’s not writing.”

“Writing?”

“Investigative journalist in his spare time, not that he has much of it.”

“Wow. Quite an inspirational person, then?”

“You could say that. I also don’t think he’s actually human, but you know, each to their own.”

Musichetta closes her eyes for a moment and thinks. They’ve been looking for a new place to meet after the debacle with the police being called – it wasn’t like they were _doing_ anything, just having a slightly heated discussion about next moves but people can be such idiots sometimes – and well, looks like she might have stumbled onto a winner. Perhaps she should buy the guy who was following her some flowers for inadvertently helping her to find this place. She takes another long sip of her tea and wanders over to perch on an armchair. Éponine potters for a bit, and then goes back to the notebook laid open on the counter.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, when she’s done, putting the mug back.

“Welcome any time,” Éponine tells her, nearly almost sincere.

*

It’s been a long month, Enjolras thinks, dragging his tired body back up the street towards the house. His piles of notes are heavy in his backpack, and his muscles scream with every step. The overpass is dark, and the sleet is coming down, and he needs to write up his findings as quickly as possible and get them onto the Internet before the weapons dealers have time to arm themselves with statements and good lawyers and funding from their friends in high places.

He ducks out into the rain and down the street towards the Rookery, about to get his key into the door before it is pulled open, and someone has stuck their arm around his shoulders, yanking him indoors to a cheer of, “Surprise!”. Someone pulls a party popper over his head, and he looks up at all his friends through strings of brightly-coloured confetti.

“What are you all doing here?” he asks, bemused, rubbing his eyes. Combeferre is a steady presence at his side, arm warm and solid around his back.

“You didn’t think we’d forget your birthday, idiot,” Bahorel says.

“It’s my birthday?”

“What are you like?” That’s Feuilly, paint-smeared as always, and exhausted looking. “We know you’re tired, thought we could just do a couple of drinks and a cake then we’ll all bugger off and let you crash.”

Jehan and Courfeyrac are sitting curled into the same armchair, and Combeferre steers him to the sofa opposite, shoving him down in between Joly and Bossuet. Joly puts her head on his shoulder briefly in greeting, and Bossuet starts to pick the streamers out of his hair.

“Sorry,” he says, after a moment. “I’m…”

“Don’t apologise.” Courfeyrac wags a finger, mock-chiding. “We’ve obviously got to add – _making sure Enjolras remembers his birthday_ onto our list of things his friends have to do _._ ”

Enjolras smiles at him, and Courfeyrac beams back. Jehan blows a kiss; someone dims the lights and Éponine appears, carrying a cake decorated painstakingly with little figures of his friends. Something swells inside him, squeezing his heart against his ribcage. He obediently blows out the flickering candles to cries of, “Make a wish!”

He’s never particularly believed in magic, but in this moment, he closes his eyes and breathes out a wish into the spaces between the air molecules. His friends are close, laughing; Gavroche pipes out a complaint, and Bahorel rumbles something back. Combeferre squeezes his shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re home,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Come tumblr with me: @barefoot-pianist


End file.
